On The Job Training
by Rei Ronin
Summary: The memoirs of the man known as Blaze. A tale of war among the clouds and below the ground. A ballad of comradeship and romance. And a warning to those who don't know the price a warrior pays. BlazeEdge
1. Arrival

On the Job Training

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An Ace Combat 5 story

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AN: This is an exploratory chapter. Tell me what you think and I might continue. It's mostly meant to be a fleshing out of Blaze's character, as I don't like the idea of the 'off-screen hero'.

* * *

It was, I reflected, an exceptionally smooth ride out to Sand Island. That was saying something, to be sure, considering the make of plane we were riding in. The plane was little more than a flying delivery truck, and designed for carrier operations. Unfortunately, the combination made for a plane that was particularly susceptible to turbulence.

For the umpteenth time that flight, I looked over to the man who was piloting it, a middle-aged, balding man in the blue jumpsuit of an aircraft maintenance technician. According to the patch it sported, he belonged to the 703rd Company of that particular service branch. According to our smooth ride, he was either preternaturally skilled at picking out a route free of turbulence or a really hot hand on the transport's flight yoke. Well, I'd know as soon as we started to enter ground effect during landing, but I got the feeling it was more the latter than the first.

He had introduced himself to the trainees and reporter that his cargo was, and that included me, despite my spot in the co-pilot seat, as Peter Beagle…though he asked for us to call him 'Pops'. It seemed appropriate.

Not quite wanting to return to my book yet, I glanced over my shoulder to look at the pilot trainee who had taken the seat of the radio and navigations officer. A short (common among fighter pilots), slender (not quite so common), young woman (very rare), she had an elegance which was rare among our flashy breed, the egomaniacs known as fighter pilots.

Her name was Kei Nagase, and though she was not someone I had really talked to during our basic flight training at Heirlark AFB, my choice of reading material had elicited some conversation between her and I, though she was mainly spending her time writing in a red covered book with gold lettering on the cover, as she was at that time, her intensity on the task, as well as a sort of tenderness that she held for the book. Why, I couldn't say. I hadn't yet felt confident that it would be right to ask her what was in the book.

My eyes returned to the sea in front of us…and a small speck that seemed to have a number of colors in it. "Ah…Nagase? Are we coming up on Sand Island?" As I asked this question, I started to look over my shoulder at her, but as she put her book down and started to bring up the navigational records, Pops's voice stopped her.

"Yeah, that's it, Veras. You've got good eyes, even for a pilot." My gaze shifted to him, and a small, but surprised smile curved my lips. It's good to hear someone complement your eyesight in my chosen profession, but I was somewhat surprised to hear him remember my name so accurately after just introducing myself to him once over five hours ago. Speaking of which, my legs were getting stiff.

"Thanks. Uh, Pops?"

"What is it, Veras?"

"I was just wondering how long it would take us to reach the final approach. I'd kinda like to stretch my legs so I don't stumble off the plane onto the tarmac."

"Oh, it'll be about fifteen minutes. Call it twenty till tarmac. Why don't you and Nagase both do that? Take five, and don't worry about it. I know this patch of sea pretty well." Man, was that an understatement. He knew the waves and islands about better than the back of his hand.

"Thanks." I unstrapped myself and made my hunched way out of the area that was cramped by the overhead controls that were meant for the pilot and co-pilot.

Nagase was a little more graceful with her rise, with a quiet "Of course, sir," but, to be fair, she did have more overhead to work in, and she was maybe a quarter of a foot shorter than me. I'm not the graceless sort, you know.

* * *

Anyway, I followed her through the cockpit door to see Alvin Davenport, a friend of mine, my bunkmate at Hierlark, actually, talking to the reporter that had been allowed to do a story on the Sand Island Detachment of the 108 Tactical Fighter Squadron, commonly known as the Wardogs. He had explained to me earlier that he was most interested in Captain Jack Bartlett, the detachment leader, and a man who shared the same first name as I. 

I couldn't really blame Genette for wanting to do a story on Captain Bartlett…he truly was the best BFM and ACM instructor in the Osean Military Defense Forces. On the other hand, Genette was firmly anti-war, so why in the hell he would be doing a story on fighter pilots was beyond me. That was something I intended to ask him as soon as I got the chance on the ground.

But right now, I knew that Genette was plenty occupied trying to follow my rock and roll obsessed buddy's illustration of…ah, one of the last simulation combat flights we had engaged in at Hierlark. Come to think of it, Nagase had flown an excessively competent wing for me in that one, and we had splashed Alvin and his wing, an egotistical dandy, even for a pilot, who insisted on being referred to as Mustang, a callsign he had picked out for himself. It was a classic example of teamwork against a split element, and that was probably why Alvin was recounting it, considering that it had been a rather crushing defeat for him.

Amusingly, he was having trouble describing it, lacking the necessary number of hands, having only been gifted with two, just like the rest of us. Mustang sure wasn't going to help him…he was still sorely bitter about that defeat.

So when Alvin saw Nagase and I, it didn't surprise me that he called us over to have our hands play the part of our virtual planes.

Nagase was just asking me, "Veras…is Davenport going over our last simulator exercise with the reporter?" and I was just answering:

"Yeah, looks like we're at the part where we were pulling into the high yo-yo…" when Alvin called over to us.

"Hey Jack, Nagase! Help me out here. I'm trying to explain our last sim to the shutterbug here, and I'm missing a pair of hands." Alvin had an earbud in one ear, and I could hear the faint strains of a rock song through it…_Blurry_, by Puddle of Mudd, I thought. More contemporary than most of what he listened to, as he was firmly rooted in the classic rock era for his base, but he also was willing to branch out a bit with is collection.

We acquiesced…you just didn't try and deny Alvin, nor did you really want to. He could grate on your nerves a bit, sure, but he was easy to get along with. Besides, he filled up the empty spaces where I was supposed to be talking. As friends, we complemented each other well, and both of us were classic rock fans. But enough about that. Soon we were all explaining to Genette how it had gone, Alvin's more wild explanation matching his hands' wild and wide movements, while Nagase and my more smooth and matching 'flight paths' that our hands followed matched out calm and laconic description.

But it was inevitable that we would get our arms tangled. With all we were doing, it had to happen, cheeks brushing and bodies pressed closer than the Book would like. Genette certainly got a good laugh out of it, seeing us lying on the floor, Alvin draped over my back and with his arms around my neck, and me on top of Nagase, who looked somewhat uncomfortable with Alvin and my weights on top of her…not to mention my arm kinda squashing her breasts under her flight suit. Thank the Fates Above that it wasn't my hand. That would have robbed the humor from the situation entirely for she and I, though I'm sure Alvin would have gotten a huge guffaw out of it.

Pretty much all of the trainees were laughing when I finally was able to lever Alvin off of me with my shoulder and roll off of Nagase, and right onto Alvin with a grunted "Off boy," Considering that I was damn sure that he had started playing along for the other pilots' amusements, I felt that my actions were both just and humorous.

I didn't really have a barometer for just available at the time, but the raise in the volume of the laughter seemed a pretty clear sign that it was indeed humorous. And when I got up and Kirk, Alvin's dog, trotted over to slobber all over his face, I decided to take that as confirmation of the justice in my actions…not that the humor wouldn't have been enough reason to pull that one.

Extending a hand to Nagase's still-prone form, I helped her up, and we started to make our way back to the cockpit when Genette calmed enough from his laughter at Alvin's continuing actions to ask us how long we'd be flying till we reached Sand Island.

I started to do some mental calculations and estimations, but Nagase's voice preempted me. "We're about ten minutes from landing." It looked like our little explanation had taken a bit longer than intended.

Then Nagase and I were through the door and our new home for however long advanced training would take, and perhaps longer if we impressed the Captain, was looming larger.

_Yeah…right. As if a bunch of 'nuggets' were going to impress this captain._

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AN: And there's the beginning. Tell me what you think by way of review. Response will determine if this story goes anywhere.


	2. Humble

On the Job Training

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An Ace Combat 5 story

* * *

And there he was, the CO of the Sand Island detachment of the 108th Tactical Fighter squadron. Captain Jack Bartlett. The scruffy-chinned old veteran had walked out to look us over as we left the transport behind and let our boots touch the tarmac of our new home. Not to greet us though, to evaluate us.

Nor was he being formal about things. He was simply walking about the crowd of his new nuggets, his flight suit unzipped to about the bottom of his sternum, revealing a simple white undershirt. Nagase and I seemed to catch his eye as we exited the plane, but that was likely just a matter of the fact that we had exited with Pops, and that marked us as the ones that had helped to fly the plane in.

My first impression of Captain Bartlett? A fighter pilot's fighter pilot. His record from the last Belkan war spoke for itself, as did his reputation as a trainer. But more so, it was his presence, and the way he held himself. He might have been the same height as me, but he seemed a good six inches taller. He was imposing enough to seem as if he was more than roughly ten pounds heavier than me, as he was, more like twenty. And one look at his face would convince you that this was a man who _KNEW_ the art of air combat.

There was awe in my mind when I watched as he strode over to Pops and exchanged a few friendly words…gruff, but friendly. Was I looking at where I would be? Or was the peace to last for Osea? Would I never have to ascend in anger, never to have the blade of my soul tempered in the way that only the fires of battle can provide?

I know now, that it was neither. But such is for later.

My thoughts were roughly ripped away from their contemplation of my new trainer by my body's automatic reflex to the approach of a cleanly uniformed superior officer. Almost as one, we nuggets all snapped to attention and saluted the approaching man. It seemed appropriate for him, even though it hadn't for Bartlett. Even on the breezy tarmac, he was wearing the uniform hat, despite the sea breeze and jet wash from a pair of F-4Es from the 596th Fighter Squadron. His visible hair, though it was cut short, was blonde and he had a build not unlike mine, a little bulkier perhaps.

"At ease, cadets. I am Captain Allen Hamilton, Adjutant Base Commander and leader of the detachment of the 596th Fighter Squadron that is assigned to Sand Island. I would like to apologize for Lieutenant Colonel Perrault not being able to greet you, but his duties as Sand Island AFB's CO take precedence, as I'm sure you understand. Now, the grizzled old war dog that's been walking among you is Captain Jack Bartlett, CO of Sand Island's detachment of the 108th Tactical Fighter Squadron. He's also your primary trainer, so listen to him. He can make you into a pilot with the skills of an ace, so long as you follow his orders and accept deep down that he knows, and you do not." He stopped, as if to collect his thoughts. "A few last items before I hand you over to Captain Bartlett. Though we do have trainers on base, you will all be assigned an F-5E Tiger as your training craft. It's a fully outfitted fighter, loaded out like any other front-line craft Also, your squadron callsign is appropriately enough, Wardog. All yours, Bartlett." He turned and started walking off.

"Alright nuggets. You'll be staying at the BOQ. You'll have to submit callsigns to control before your first flight, but I'm going to be nice and let you all have a day to settle in before you have your first briefing, and for some of you, your first flight."

* * *

And so it was for me…my first flight in Wardog Squadron, I mean. Having followed Alvin's…well, Chopper by then, suggestion and registered my callsign as Blaze for the apparent fire in my eyes that some people said I got whenever I suited up or practiced my martial arts that gave me so much of my focus, I was assigned to Captain Bartlett himself for the first evaluatory flight. My buddy, Chopper, got First Lieutenant Baker as his instructor, and the rather annoying Mustang…who showed up as Mostang on the radar due to an amusing clerical error, got First Lieutenant Svenson.

I've flow many times since that ascent, and a good number of times before it. The F-5E with the number 016 on its nose wasn't even my favorite of the planes that I've flown. But still, even with all I've done, that plane and that flight will always hold a certain place in my heart. Strapping in to that sleek little jet, dogging down the canopy, hearing her turbines come alive behind me…ecstasy. Fully armed, I smiled to hear the voice from the control tower…Nagase's actually. It wasn't so much that it was her at that time, but what she called me.

"Wardog 16, this is Sand Island Control. You are cleared to follow Wardog 1 into the air and carry out his flight orders."

"Wardog 16, Roger," I replied, pushing my mask up against my face so as the microphone in it would more easily pick up my voice then from where it hung by one side off of the helmet. Letting the mask fall again, I pushed the power slightly forward and disengaged the brakes, using my rudder pedals to taxi my way onto the runway. Throttling back to zero and engaging the brakes again, I pushed my mask back up against my face. "Control, this is Wardog 16. Requesting permission to take off."

"Wardog 16, Control. You are cleared to take off. Good luck." Nagase's voice almost sounded jealous of me, but sitting where I was, I really couldn't blame her.

Mumbling "Thanks," I affixed my mask so that it sat snugly against my face, and lowered my sun visor, as the day was clear and the sun was high. Then I released the brakes and smoothly throttled up, waiting till my airspeed was up to a reasonable level before rotating and climbing, taking my gear up as I went feet wet. Moving my head about, I searched the sky, the integrated partial HUD in my helmet telling me all I needed to know.

Ah…there he was. A black speck surrounded by a pale blue box and the lettering HRTBREAK 1 alongside it. Captain Bartlett's F-4G, the only plane in Wardog that was anything but an F-5E. Manipulating the stick and throttle, I rose in a smooth curving arc to form up on his wing. "Captain Bartlett, this is Wardog 16. I'm ready to receive orders."

"Up here I'm Heartbreak One, Captain, or Wardog 1, nugget. Don't you forget that. You got it?"

"Yes, Captain."

"Good answer, boy. Now, what's your callsign…Blaze, huh? Where'd that come from?"

"I'm told I've got a fire in my eyes when I fly, Heartbreak One. I might have like the callsign Fate, but that seemed a bit presumptuous."

"A bit, nugget. I think you might have potential, though. We'll see. You might just be getting a nickname from me soon enough. Now we're going to do some pretty basic maneuvers as our first test, then we'll…"

A number of 'bogey' signatures had me breaking in on the Captain's speech. "Heartbreak One, I have four bogeys closing at a rate of four hundred knots from my seven o'clock! Please advise!" Even as I said this, I whipped my head over my left shoulder to search that sector of sky. Sure enough, there were four green Xs with a small break in the middle, but I didn't see any black dots against the clear sky. Still, they were a ways out, and though my eyes are sharp, air combat is fought in such a way that eyes find themselves at a handicap. I could feel the energy flowing through my body, linking me to that little fighter, ready to pull off into an evasive maneuver and perhaps engage the contacts in battle.

But Bartlett's laugh and the four broken Xs disappearing from the helmet HUD snapped me from that moment of what was almost transcendence. "That's good, Blaze, you've got some real potential. Not many pilots at your stage can even think about having the kind of situational awareness that you've got. Your plane handling seems pretty good too. I thought you had what it took. Looks like we get to skip to the fun stuff. Let's see how well you handle single-ship ACM. We'll be engaging the training program on the flight computer. Set it to GUNS, then I'll peel off and set up for engagement. Pipper on for two seconds equals a win. Don't worry, I'll go easy on you. I've got Genette as GIB, so I've gotta be nice to him. It's not any sympathy for you."

I reached forward and toggled on the training program, which targeted the Captain, then relaxed a bit as I waited for him to get ready, though I did keep up a watch of my search radar, as well as scanning the sky. I wasn't going to lose my SA. That was too high of a compliment to be given to screw it up. After all, it's said that if you keep your SA stuffed in your lunchbox, your remains will likely fit in the same. Much like a skilled duel between a pair of martial artists, air combat is a fast paced cerebral clash, both parties jockeying for position and angle, as well as the all-important energy.

I suppose you could liken it to chess as well…but I think that does it a disservice. "Alright Blaze. One head to head pass, then we go at it."

"Sir!" I lined up my fighter to head for that little speck that was outlined by the green box and shoved my throttle forward, outboard, then forward again, engaging my afterburners. I could see from the glow on the underside of the rapidly advancing Phantom that Bartlett had also lit his burners. My mind started to run through options…but it was too late. There was a wooshing roar and suddenly, thinking had become a liability.

Snapping my head over so that I could see the seven o'clock as I took the burners off, I spotted Bartlett's Phantom coming in at me in a tight turn that I knew I could match and pull another head to head with him. The trouble was, I knew that I wasn't likely to get two seconds of pipper time on him like that, and he might just havebeen able to pull it off.

Banking about thirty degrees towards Bartlett, I hauled back on the stick and entered a sort of diagonal loop that I hoped would let me gain altitude while not sacrificing position, indeed, hopefully improving it. It didn't work so well. Bartlett traded lift for a tighter turn, then leveled his wings out some and hit afterburners, climbing and pulling in behind me into lead pursuit. Having lost sight of him during my maneuver, I only got a split second's worth of warning before I found myself spiraling to the right and towards the sea, desperately trying to keep that pipper off of my little plane for more than two seconds at a time. It worked, but Bartlett stayed on my tail as if welded there, rolling his plane and pulling back on the stick, diving inverted after me to maximize his pitch rate.

He was having trouble keeping the pipper on me though, as I could tell from his grunted expletives as I jinked about his target picture. Genette seemed to be getting a bit sick, but was speaking excitedly about how great of footage this was. I seem to remember being a little resentful of that, but considering how my head was spinning with multi-lingual curses and evasion routines, neither of which category seemed to do anything to get Bartlett's big plane off of my slender one's tail, I could very easily be mistaken.

Our routine of evasion and targeting eventually leveled out, after say, five seconds, and we inscribed a serpentine tangle of contrails across the sky, crossing Sand Island not more than a few times.

Nagase later told me that she made encouraging comments to me during this. I believe her, but I've got no memory whatsoever of it. I was far too wrapped up trying to get Bartlett off of my tail and in front of my guns. It wasn't the transcendant feeling I had gotten when I prepared to do what I had to against the false bogies, rather, it was an overload of synaptic function.

A bright idea popped into my head as Bartlett moved extremely close to me. Pitching my nose up, I gave it half a second of burner, then chopped throttle and pitched my nose down, before kicking in engines at something above idle again. Just as I had hoped, Bartlett's F-4G filled my windscreen, and my pipper was on him…for a half-second or so, as he zoom-climbed, burners roaring. "Nice, Blaze. Now let's see if you can follow this!"

Kicking in my own, I followed him, doing my best to keep the pipper on him. Not an easy task, I assure you. His jinking couldn't have been pleasant for Genette, but I didn't hear vomiting for the reporter's channel, forcing me to upgrade my opinion of his constitution. But then, I thought I had Bartlett. For some reason or another, he was going straight up, though his engines weren't on burner. As quickly as I could, I swung the pipper over to him.

To no avail, as I should have known. My Tiger and I flashed by him as he ruddered over into an intentional hammerhead stall that he dove out of into aclimb that brought his fighter's nose up into a perfect lead pursuit on my quick evasion, placing his pipper on me for a good three seconds. "Bang, Kid, you're dead. Nice job. Form up on my wing and we'll head for home. We've been burning fuel pretty fast."

"Complying, Heartbreak One. Will do." I did so, then unstrapped my mask and swore softly, too quietly for the microphone to pick it up. It was a somewhat depressing flight back to base.

Come to think of it, that was the first time he called me Kid. I didn't like it then…but that was before I knew what it meant.

* * *

A/N: And a first review speeds things along. Well, I've gotten a decent number of hits, as well as a nice review, so I suppose I'll keep this up. Besides, it's fun to write first person, and ACM, so this is pretty self-indulgent for me. Anyway, I'm sorry this isn't the more action-packed war yet, but this is supposed to focus more on the characters than did the game. The war will start soon enough, though, and hopefully that training guns duel whetted your appetites at least a bit. Now...please do review. Reviews are the way that I can make a story better for you, and keep me from abandoning it. Till next time.


	3. Horror

On the Job Training

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An Ace Combat 5 story

* * *

My flight and approach to Sand Island was textbook, but I really didn't notice it. I was too focused on how Bartlett had knocked me out of the sky using simulated guns in a plane that was notorious for its badly suited performance envelope for gunfighting with such apparent ease. Never mind that I was extremely new at live combat flying, even simulated, never mind that I had kept the fight going for minutes on end, never mind that I had dragged him across Sand Island's airspace multiple times, never mind that I had gotten on his tail…reversed the tables, if only for a little bit, my ego would not let me accept the fact that I lost in such a way that would mean overwhelming victory in any sense of training. I just couldn't pull my head out of my ass long enough to accept on an emotional level that I just wasn't as good as Bartlett.

'Ace' was already becoming a common nickname for me, and I was sulking. In numerous other training flights after that one, I had not once been bested by any of the other trainees, I could win a third of my engagements against Lt. Baker, half of my engagements against Lt. Svenson, and made Bartlett really work to take me down. But I still hadn't scored one victory against him. It was maddening…and childish, I realize now. If I could only beat him once, I told myself, only once, I would be satisfied.

I never did beat him. But no one has ever denied that I surpassed him.

* * *

There were other things I was childish about. Such as the fact that whenever we did 'full-squadron training', I was plunked in my butt in the control tower with whoever else was so unlucky to be stuck on the ground that week. We were to play AEWACS for the training group. I wanted more than anything else to fly fighters, and he had me playing AEWACS radar tech! I thought it a prime waste of my skills. If I had just gotten that flight time, I was convinced, I could have beaten Bartlett. Of course, when the war broke out, it was that practice which helped my squadron be so successful. I didn't get it then, but Kei did. Bartlett was grooming me for a squadron command.

And being on the ground did allow me to ask Genette about why he was so interested in writing a story about fighter pilots in general…Bartlett in particular. His answer surprised me.

It was the week before things fell apart, and Mr. Mostang was trapped in the tower with Genette and me, Genette having decided to ground himself after a particularly wild BvB (Bartlett vs. Blaze, as they called my little grudge matches with the captain) had gone down yesterday, finally forcing Genette to lose his lunch. I had to admit, I was a little proud of that. The guy was tough, and no denying.

But I was sitting at my board, giving it a glance every ten seconds or so to keep the picture updated in my mind as I chatted with Genette. Meanwhile, Mostang was across the room, eyes glued to his scope as he did his very best to keep up with the on screen action. I had long ago gotten good enough to not need to obsessively watch the screen, could predict what each marker would do with a fair degree of accuracy.

"Why I want to do a story on fighter pilots? That's pretty insightful for a military man, Veras," joked Genette.

"Just humor me," I replied in mock exasperation.

"Well, it's kind of a weird way of looking at things, but as I see it, fighter pilots aren't really all warmongers. In fact I find that quite a few of you aren't. You guys are more like guardians…what was that Usean pilot…Mobius 1's, quote on warriors and pacifists?"

"You mean, 'A pacifist is he who refuses to take up arms even in the face of those who use arms against him, while a warrior is one who arrays his arsenal around his house and prays to never, ever use it'?" I supplied, having come across the powerful quote in the book about that ace that I had been reading when we came to the island.

"Yeah," he said, nodding, "That's the one. I guess I see you guys out here as Mobius 1's ideal warriors, protecting the peace we have. I'm not so much of a bleeding-heart liberal that I've taken to heart the idea that a military is unnecessary…we all are human, after all, but I like the thought of a group of warriors, rather than a bunch of mercenaries upholding the safety of my country. Does that make sense?"

I nodded, considering his words. "Actually, it does. But I've got to say…I think I'd like to fly real combat, at least once. I want to know what it feels like…but I'd want my opponent to eject safely."

How I would regret those words come the following week.

* * *

The Sand Island incident is a well-known piece of history now. Everyone knows that the war started when eight MiG-29A Fulcrums with Yuktobanian markings came flying into the Sand Island Fighter Training Airspace from heading 280 and bounced the Sand Island detachment of the Osean 108st Tactical Fighter Squadron. The MiGs scored 11 kills, all F-5E Tiger IIs. In a freak coincidence, not one pilot who was shot down was able to eject. Ten trainees, who I had known since we entered the Academy died up there in the clouds. 2nd Lt. Baker also met his fate when 23mm cannon fire from a Gsh-23 ripped into his cockpit. The only three planes that made it back to even attempt a landing on Sand Island's runway were Captain Bartlett's F-4G, which also carried Genette, and Nagase and 2nd Lt. Svenson's F-5Es. Svenson then crashed on landing, and burned to death in his plane's wreckage before the emergency crews could get to him.

The tally on the butcher's bill was enormous, and was in no way counter-balanced by the three confirmed kills on our side. Captain Bartlett managed to take down two of the attackers, and Svenson was credited posthumously with his 21st kill. It is also thought that one of Nagase's missiles did damage an enemy fighter, but this is unconfirmed.

And worst of all, all I and Chopper could do was to watch in horror as the battle unfolded. Watch in horror as a mistake that we didn't catch on the part of the control tower's officer doomed 12 fine men and women to death.

* * *

It unfolded something like this.

Chopper and I were chatting idly as the training flight was about to enter the training zone. In fact, I think I was chuckling at an incredibly raunchy joke that he had just popped. It's not fit for reprint, if it's the one I'm thinking of. Not really all that funny, but it was Chopper telling it. In any case, I do remember my laughs stopping abruptly as I saw the eight bogeys pop up on the screen, coming in from bearing 280. I estimated them to be doing roughly Mach .6.

Now, that's certainly in the speed range of airliners, but there was more to disturb me. First of all, airliners never, I repeat, never, fly so close together. Nor were the radar returns large enough for airliners. The RCS of a MiG-29A isn't exactly small, but a commercial airliner is MUCH larger. Of course, the thing that disturbed me the most was the fact that they were running without squawking transponder codes. Even if all the other warning signs weren't enough, that alone would have screamed 'not airliners'. Hell, it screamed 'not Osean'.

All this flashed through my head in less than a second. Chopper was just opening his mouth to ask me why when I spoke. "Sir, I think you had better come take a look at this."

That, perhaps, killed Wardog just as surely as the missiles and guns of those Fulcrums. The duty officer was bored, tired, and using the fact that Chopper and I were in the tower to shirk his board watching duties. I don't like to criticize my fellow soldiers, and in fact, the duty officer is a fine man, but this was not his finest hour. It is truth, and I am sure he would admit it just as well as I write this down now.

Indeed, he took up his duties to the best of his somewhat bleary ability. "You were right, Jack…holy hell," he said as he looked at the board. Turning away, he grabbed up his headset and keyed the transmission switch. "Command Room to Wardog Squadron, Command Room to Wardog Squadron. We have leakers, aircraft type unknown. Crossing the board at 378 to 280." He paused as he scanned the board, then frowned. "Captain Bartlett, your flight is the only group close enough to make the intercept."

Bartlett's response was one I almost heard before he said it. "Gimme a break, I'm babysitting nuggets up here!" There was something through the com static that wasn't quite a sigh. "Alright, Baker, Svenson, go high and follow me! The rest of you, stay low and out of the fight." He knew that these bogeys were bandits, without confirmation. He also knew that his force was severely outmatched. But he also knew one more thing. The Fulcrums would be low on fuel, and attacking as a raid. They only had a limited amount of time to fight. If he could just hold them off long enough, it might be enough.

Of course, if they had recently refueled from a KC-10 or similar, there was no hope but to try and hold out long enough for units from the 596th to respond, and that wasn't a happy proposition.

It didn't come to that, though. The MiGs were armed with more than just the standard air-to-all missiles that complement their standard armament of either bombs or a pair of rocket pods. They also carried a small load of SARH missiles. Combined with their intended mission of blowing a few fighters out of the air to start a war, as well as a screw-up on the part of the duty officer that I did not catch, it turned the supposedly 'safe' low-altitude zone that my fellow trainees had gone to into a shooting gallery.

All that could be done was to watch in horror as the missiles streaked out towards the trainees. Eight missiles bored in on eleven planes, and five F-5E Tiger IIs fell from the sky trailing smoke and fire. It could have been much worse, actually. None of the MiG pilots had apparently mastered the trick of managing two targets at once with their SARH weapons. Even better, my fellow trainees had the presence of mind to close the range as quickly as they could on the enemy, depriving them of their long-range advantage.

But, it didn't matter much. The eight Fulcrums tore into Wardog like wolves into sickly sheep. Two more Tiger IIs fell before Bartlett was able to bring his element down onto the furball. His angle was horrible for a missile shot, but all three of his planes launched in a desperate attempt to give the Fulcrums something else to think about. Miraculously, Lt. Sevenson's shot actually hit his target directly, and the first Fulcrum spiraled from the sky.

As if the board wasn't chaotic enough already, this made things so bad that even I had trouble seeing what was happening. I could see that Bartlett set up in an advantageous position and caught a MiG napping, but the real action was happening with Svenson. He had gotten separated from Bartlett and Baker, and was trying to shake off a MiG. Nagase saved him when she whipped into an unexpected turn that shed a MiG from her tail and gave her a wonderful angle for a missile shot at the Fulcrum that was working Svenson over. She didn't score, but she did hurry the MiG driver's shot, letting Svenson escape, albeit not undamaged.

While this happened, however, three more Tiger IIs had fallen. The only friendly aircraft in the engagement were the instructors and Nagase. Svenson and Kei were flying defensively, especially as the Lt. seemed to have hydraulics trouble. That left Bartlett and Baker up against the remaining six MiGs. Hardly good odds. But an element from the 596th was getting close, and so the Fulcrums engaged in one last head-to-head. Captain Bartlett got one of them, but cannon fire from three others punched into Lt. Baker's Tiger II. I saw video of it from Genette's camera. It's in no way pretty. The lines of fire just seem to march down the length of the plane, trashing the nose, and giving the plane the appearance that it just hit an obstruction in midair before a number of rounds shatter the canopy and one sets off an explosion in the plane's body.

And then it was over, the MiGs zipping away under afterburner while the element from the 596th, impotent, formed up to escort the survivors back. So began the horror.


	4. Beginning

On the Job Training

* * *

An Ace Combat 5 story

* * *

"I'm going."

I don't remember exactly how long it took me to get from the control room to the tarmac, or even how. I remember a mad rushing blur, nothing more. Chopper once told me that I moved through the hallways at the flat-out sprint of a hot scramble, actually throwing a tech out of the way at one point. The impressive parts, he said, were that I did it without breaking stride, and that the tech was deposited into a couch. The tech corroborated the story, but it always seemed a bit unreal to me. Of course, people say that about my flying.

Anyway, however I got there, I was standing on the tarmac as the three planes, one trailing a long streamer of thick, black smoke, entered the landing pattern. Lt. Svenson must have thought that he could hold his Tiger II in the air for a while longer, so Bartlett and Nagase landed first, Kei's flying visibly shaken. But despite her landing's flawed nature, she got onto the ground safely, as did Bartlett and Genette.

As everyone knows, Svenson was not so lucky.

I once heard some stand-up comedian ranting about the airlines. He spoke about the announcements at the end of the flight, where the captain says something along the lines of: "We'll be on the ground shortly." He then went on to note that 'on the ground' could mean any number of things, few of them good. I just couldn't find the humor in that joke after I watched Svenson crash.

Despite his damage, Svenson was doing an admirable job of flying a passable landing. He was passing through 1,000 feet when something went wrong, though. No one in the world is exactly sure what made his fighter roll roughly 130 degrees and had the engines throttling randomly and independently. It took a miracle to put his wings level with the ground, and his cockpit facing towards the sky. But by that time, he was less than 200 feet from the ground, and not even close to on line with the runway.

The 'zero-zero' ejection seat installed in modern fighters as a matter of course is an amazing piece of machinery. A pilot can eject in relative safety from a plane parked on the tarmac. Unfortunately for Lt. Svenson, the F-5E is not a modern fighter. In retrospect, Svenson should have bailed over the shoals. But he didn't, and so he died in a rolling fireball as his plane hit the ground, twisting and spinning as it skipped across an unused part of the island before finally coming to a rest in the sea.

Ego's a bitch.

* * *

I knew full well what was going to happen when we were called to the briefing room the next day. Captain Bartlett's resigned slump in his chair only threw it into sharper focus. I slid into my chair slowly and quietly. Chopper was chatting with a pilot from the 596th, but even that was quiet and subdued.

Though I felt a calm acceptance as I waited for him to speak, Nagase was the only outwardly confident pilot, her back ramrod-straight as she sat in the front row. But the fixed immobility of her expression belied her confidence. Yesterday's event had affected her heavily…more so than anyone else. She was the only combat virgin who had been the air that day. Bartlett had been heavily affected by the slaughter of his squadron…who couldn't have been…but he knew death from the previous war.

Kei didn't. And she had been in the air, a factor when the furball erupted. And despite her best efforts, she had saved no one. That's a hard, hard position, one that I thank the Fates that I have never had to share. I found myself without any way to do something while people I knew died. Kei, bless her soul, found herself with the power to intervene…and failed.

Bartlett pulled himself to sitting upright in his seat and sighed. "Alright…I know you don't like this, but yesterday's incident has given us no choice. Starting tomorrow, all of you nuggets are sitting combat alert."

We all knew it was going to happen, but now it was official. 2nd Lts Alvin Davenport, Kei Nagase, and Jack Veras were combat pilots in the 108th Tactical Fighter Squadron, callsign Wardog.

"Nagase!" called the Captain sharply.

"Yes sir?" came the clipped answering question.

"You're flying number two on my wing. Gotta keep an eye on you, or who knows what kind of trouble you'll get into out there." Honestly, that was an insult. Kei should have been flying the number three slot. No one could dispute Bartlett's claim to the lead, but Kei was the most experienced pilot in the squadron after him. Therefore, she should have had the number three. Number two was habitually assigned to the pilot who needed the most protection. That, sorry to say, was Chopper. But Bartlett, for some reason or another, did not respect Nagase's skills behind the stick. I couldn't say why. Maybe it was his way of making sure he didn't feel any attraction to her. Maybe it was a symptom of attraction to her. I don't know. We've never discussed it.

"Yes sir," her response was even tighter than the last one, if that was possible.

Bartlett didn't even acknowledge her tone. He looked at Chopper and me. "Davenport, you're three, Veras, four. Make sure your planes are ready to fly. We cannot afford to have a downchecked plane. Minor gripes are to be ignored if there's even a single major on any of the planes. I don't care if they're almost unflyable, just so long as they are."

My mouth tightened at the assignment, then even more at the order on plane readiness. If Nagase wasn't flying three, it certainly should have been me. I was hands down, the best pilot trainee, and we all knew it. Kei was second, but she lagged behind. Still, she had combat experience, something which I lacked, for all my skill. But why were WE in the wingman slots? It felt like another slight to me, and as I later learned, Kei. Not that I shouldn't have been able to tell on her part.

The second order could have been one straight out of whatever underworld you believe in, or its equivalent. But there, at least, Pops came to the rescue. I have absolutely no idea how he could work the magic he did on our planes, but he had shorter full maintence cycles than each plane had flying hours in between the cycles. That, as any tech will tell you, is IMPOSSIBLE. He did it though. I never flew a plane that came out of a hangar Pops was responsible for that was in anything but perfect condition. More unsung heroism from an unsung war.

Bartlett then launched into a description of our operations area, and what we were going to be doing. To put it bluntly, and pardon the pun, we were out on the sharp end. Sand Island was the first line of defense for the Osean continent, and guess where any possible counterstrikes would be staged through, if it came to that? That's right, Sand Island.

So it was with that understanding that Wardog flight took off into the skies of an idyllic island day on a mission to intercept a SR-71 Blackbird that some unknown force had sent to spy on our mainland, and had received a hypervelocity SAM for their trouble. Our mission was to force a surrender and to make it put down at a costal airfield.

As might be expected…things didn't go so smoothly.

* * *

Well, the takeoff and flight to our ops area was actually pretty smooth, to be honest. I've got to admit that. It was right when we got there and Sand Island control handed us off to the on-station AEWACS that things started getting eventful.

"Wardog squadron, this is AEWACS Thunderhead. I will be providing you with command and control for the duration of this operation," came what was to become a very familiar voice over the radio. He would actually become our C and C for FAR longer than that, but none of us knew that at the time. For all we knew the incident was just the work of some crackpot squadron commander who wanted to watch a war.

Funny…that doesn't seem so far off from the truth behind it all.

In any case, Thunderhead had more information for us. "Your target will be crossing the coast in two minutes. Maintain current course and airspeed to intercept."

"This is Wardog 1. Roger. Wardog Squad, give me a readiness check and follow me."

"Wardog 2, roger." Nagase's voice had lost some of its tightness, but had gotten a big shot of determination. She wanted to prove her flying skill to Bartlett, and no question.

"Wardog 3, a-okay, here." Chopper had some of his trademark jauntiness back. My bet is that it probably had something to do with the fact that he had his butt plunked down in a fighter. There's nothing like flying a jet made for combat.

I was still making my extremely thorough check when Bartlett became impatient with me. "Wardog 4? Hello! Can you hear me, Kid? You ready or not?"

I gritted my teeth. I HATED that callsign. What was more, my squad IFF clearly was broadcasting Blaze. But dammed if I was going to give Bartlett the satisfaction of another victory over me. I composed myself and flicked my eyes over the last items on the checklist. "Wardog 4. All green. Ready for operations."

Bartlett actually laughed. Apparently, my composure was pretty impressive, as his reply was: "Glad to see you're confident, at least. Right. You're not to fire on the target without my permission, got that?"

"Yes sir." It was kind of one of the salient points in our briefing, in fact. Perhaps even the main one. We were not to even think about releasing the safety interlocks on our weapons unless we got explicit permission. The brass really didn't want us touching off a war because our warmongering pilot natures led us to blow that recon plane out of the sky, then riddle the pilot with shots from our cannons as he floated down in his parachute.

In case there's any wonder in your mind, dear reader, I am being rather bitterly ironic. But enough of that.

Apparently, my annoyance about being reminded about one of the key mission parameters got through the distortion that comes hand in hand with radio traffic. Of course…Bartlett interpreted it as kill-happiness, maybe nerves. "Just stay in formation and don't worry. Everything will turn out just fine."

I sighed behind my mask.

Thunderhead's voice came over the radio again. "Captain Bartlett, keep in mind that we are under diplomatic peacetime conditions."

I imagine that the dark look that crossed my face was mirrored on Bartlett's. Diplomatic peacetime conditions are a jet fighter pilot's bane. Normally, under peacetime conditions if an enemy maneuvers three times for an advantageous position, we are allowed to go weapons free, because of the fact that the first shot can easily be the last when you're in a jet fighter. But under diplomatic conditions, the one and only thing that spells weapons free is getting fired upon.

To the layman, it's often confusing as to why a fighter is so fragile, so I'll explain. The trouble in understanding the fragility of a fighter is that a military aircraft is actually an extremely strongly built vehicle. They have to be, to stay together at such high speeds and at such high G-loads. The stresses are enormous upon an airframe, so they are built to withstand them.

But fighters are stressed to the limit by combat flying. So even a single cannon round can spell disaster if it hits the wrong way. It normally doesn't happen that way, but a missile's detonation and shrapnel puts a great deal more kinetic energy into the plane than a cannon round, and shrapnel's irregular shape does damage that often becomes highly exacerbated by the stresses of combat flying.

Bad things all around, as Alvin might have said.

Thankfully, all that we were intercepting was a SR-71 recon craft. Fast as hell, able to fly extremely high, but weaponless and, in this case, tagged by a SAM. It couldn't fly high or fast. All we would have to do would be to provide a threat the Blackbird would have to honor, and he should comply. It would be very possible to accomplish the mission without ever arming our weapons.

Well…in theory, anyway.


	5. Crucible

On the Job Training

* * *

An Ace Combat 5 story

* * *

Authour's Note: My FFN messaging hasn't been working of late, so if you've sent me a PM and I didn't answer, that's probably why. Sorry.

* * *

As much as I was annoyed with Bartlett at the time, his next comment did amuse me. "Diplomatic peacetime conditions, got it. I'll make sure to suck the ejecting pilot into my intakes after I dump a missile into the Blackbird. We already had our briefing. Now let us get on with our job. Are we still on intercept vector?"

"Wait one." The radio feed dropped to quiet background static for just a bit before Thunderhead came back on. "Affirmative, Wardog."

"Then just sit back and relax. This is just a routine job."

I chuckled softly as an unidentifiable sound came over the radio. Bartlett sure could get under people's skin. We flew on for a few seconds before Alvin made his first real comment of the flight…surprising for Chopper. Normally he would have already said something. Maybe it was the fact that this was for real now that got him so subdued.

"Man, I'm sure glad I didn't pick the short straw today, Blaze. It's gotta suck flying there."

"Second Lieutenant Davenport! Zip it! Do you want a nickname just like Kid?" I grimaced again at that nickname, but I couldn't help but feeling glad that someone other than me was getting their share of Bartlett abuse.

For as silly as he could be some times, Alvin sure thought quickly that time. "I respectfully ask to be called Chopper, sir!" I could hear the smug tone in his voice as he went on. "I'm afraid I might not be able to respond to any other moniker."

Why didn't I think of that? Why, oh why? It would have saved me so much resentment. But then…considering that Bartlett was actually paying me a compliment, it probably wouldn't have mattered.

"Hmm, that does fit you well. I've got a better name for you, but I'll keep it to myself for now. Alright?"

"Man…cut me some slack!"

"I am. Now cut the chatter. We're maneuvering for intercept." We all banked and pulled back on our sticks, pulling into lag pursuit of the Blackbird. As we continued our turn, our vector matched with the recon plane's, and we dropped into pure pursuit, putting ourselves back into formation.

My eyes studied the sleek, sharp-edged black silhouette that grew in my HUD. A thin streamer of smoke trailed from it, but the plane seemed to be whole. Apparently, the SAM had just barely clipped them. Taking my eyes off of it, I rechecked my position in the formation, then my radar display. All good.

"Alright, where's Motormouth Chopper?" asked Bartlett. I made sure that my mike would NOT pick up my chuckles.

"WHAT? That's your name for me?"

"You've got a knack for comic dialogue. Mind sending the surrender request for me?"

"Oh no…age before beauty."

"I'm real shy around strangers, you know." As Bartlett said this, the recon plane banked and started a turn, which we matched easily. SR-71s might be fast like nothing else, but they just aren't maneuverable at low altitudes.

"Sheesh. Testing, testing. Unidentified recon plane, this is the OADF 108th Tactical Fighter Squadron. You are instructed to change course and follow our beacon."

"Good," acknowledged Bartlett, as we flew by the helpless recon plane, contrails twisting into a short-lived and very ethereal cage about it.

Chopper continued. "We will guide you to the nearest airfield. Lower you gear if you understand."

Rather unfortunately, the Blackbird's wheel wells stayed stubbornly closed. I sighed as I looked up through my canopy at the shut wheel wells. There didn't seem to be any damage to the covers, so that wasn't it. He just wasn't cooperating...or he couldn't hear us. My eyes flicked to the radar display. Clean. But something didn't feel right. I tightened my left index finger on the HOTAS, calling up the tactical map in place of the radar. Yep, there it was. A combat line of four high-speed bogeys closing in on us from a vector that placed their point of origin across the Ceres Ocean.

I was just opening my mouth to say something when Thunderhead cut in on the radio. "Wardog Squadron, this is Thunderhead. We've got bogeys approaching your position from vector 280, altitude six thousand."

My instincts shrilled at me that this formation had to be escorts. Bartlett apparently agreed. "Crossing the ocean to fly cover for their spy plane, eh? Now there's some pilots worth their wings. Alright, form up on me. Let's see what they want."

Our flight of four abandoned the SR-71 and pulled over to a head-to-head vector with the bogeys, sliding into Four Fingers Right formation. It wasn't long until the pale green broken Xs that our HMDs used to denote contacts against which we were not to fire upon were filled with black dots that soon expanded into the shapes of a planes with delta wings, cigar shaped bodies, and intakes directly in the nose. MiG-21s, likely bis versions. A very common fighter aircraft, especially in the Yuktobanian Air Force.

That just meant all kinds of nasty things. Everyone knew that we were allies with the Yukes. The way the Belkans had ended the old war argued for peace rather pointedly. So why in the hell would two designs of MiGs, both extremely common Yuktobanian fighter aircraft, approaching on a vector that was pretty much the optimum flight path from Murska Air Base be engaging in an unprovoked attack on one of our training squadrons, and also escorting a spy plane on it's return from a mission over our territory. Even more interestingly, I realized that the SR-71 had to be one of the trio that we had lent them back during the Belkan War for their intelligence gathering efforts.

But, my musings were quickly shoved from my mind as I saw four bright flashes under the wings of the incoming Fishbeds. Four glimmers of fire remained after the flashes, but they were ahead of the planes, and trailed by white plumes of smoke. The first four flashes were soon joined by stuttering flames that spat lines of light at us.

I felt myself seem to sink into my plane as I found myself pitching up and shoving my throttle forward. Thankfully, none of the missiles followed me. I continued hauling back on the stick as I executed the inside loop, pulling the throttle back at the apex and pushing the button on the HOTAS to deploy the speed brakes. This tightened up my arc and brought me in on the tail of one of the Fishbeds. From there, I snap-rolled 180 degrees to put myself in the same flying attitude as what I assumed to be a Yuke pilot. It was about this time that Chopper's exclamation: "Heads up, they're firing on us!" actually came into my mind.

My teeth gritted and I moved my forefinger on the HOTAS control that let a pilot precisely select a target, figuring that I would go after the wingman of the second pair in the enemy element. But my HMD still bracketed the enemies in the broken Xs, even as I maneuvered to keep on the tail of my intended target, not wanting to lose them as they pulled into a decently broad turn to their right.

"Shut up and fire back!" With that order from Bartlett's mouth, the broken Xs turned to full boxes, and my gunsight pipper appeared, amazingly, right over the MiG's wing.

I didn't hesitate, squeezing the trigger, the muzzle flash of my paired 20mm cannons strobing off of my helmet's visor. Tracer rounds reached out and painted the delta wing of my target in flame and holes. Then there was a bright flash, and the Fishbed shuddered violently before the wing ripped off and the fighter began its spiral towards the waves. The pilot didn't eject.

But I didn't have time to dwell on that as I whipped my plane into a reversal with only an eye-flick glance at my tac map. Two general sound were warring for my attention: the radio chatter, including the insistent command from Thunderhead to hold fire, Captain Bartlett's encouragement, Chopper's panicked interjections, and Kei's calm reports. Then there was the throbbing warning tone that warned me of an enemy seeker trying to acquire me.

What appeared in my view was a very rapidly growing MiG that flashed right over me, the warning alarm going off as he crossed my nose. I snapped my gaze over to keep my eye on him as he maneuvered and did my best to figure out what he'd do.

"Blaze, splash one bandit!"

Thunderhead's report reminded me that I had forgotten to report my kill. But I had more pressing matters to attend to. It seemed that the MiG who had chosen me as his target had rolled left 45 degrees and pitched up in a combination between a loop and a turn. I could try and match the maneuver, setting up another head-to-head, but the MiG had more power than my F-5E, and he had started the maneuver before me. With the small box of sky that we would be moving through, he might get lucky enough to catch me while I was finishing my maneuver, and put his fire into my midline without me ever getting a shot.

By the same token, I couldn't break left or keep on flying straight. That would give him an extremely easy target. Right and down would put on airspeed, but he'd have altitude on me. Put simply, I was pinned.

But I was flying as part of an element. "Blaze here. I've got a MiG on my tail. Can someone clear it for me?" The warning tone started up again.

"Roger that, Kid. Got in over your head? Break right on my say-so." Fates how I hated that nickname. "Hard right, now!"

Stimulus, response. I rolled hard, yanked back on the stick, and found Bartlett's big plane roaring through my jet wash as I sped through a flat arc. The MiG driver panicked, breaking down and right. "Bandit acquired!" I crowed, as I dove into pure pursuit, the missile lock icon on my HMD already moving onto the pale green box that surrounded the MiG, my helmet speakers now giving me the comforting broken tone of 'locking on'.

"He's all yours, Kid. Think you can take him?"

"Yes sir."

"Good. I've got to go scratch Chopper's back. Edge, you done playing with your buddy?"

"Wait one, sir. Splash one. MiG destroyed."

"Alright, you come over here and cover Kid while he takes down this one."

I was aware that Nagase would be coming to cover me soon on a secondary level, but my attention was more on the MiG in front of me. Bad situational awareness…I know. It didn't kill me then, thank the Fates. It really could have, though.

In my defense, the guy in front of me was GOOD. I had achieved the smooth tone of a solid lock, but he denied me the angle I would need to put my missile into his tailpipe, while holding just out of effective guns range. Kei tells me that I kept on muttering a very cliché 'come on, come on' as I tried to get the angle I was looking for.

That…I have no memory of.

"Blaze, Edge. I'm coming in on your position. Do you want me to herd your target anywhere?"

"If you could get him to pitch down some, that'd be great, Edge." I continued my maneuvering, then…

"Splash one! Keep it together Chopper, you'll be fine."

"Man…Dogfighting sucks!"

"Hey Kid! Stop playing around with him so we can all go home!"

"Enemy recon plane down. Looks like the engine trouble went catastrophic."

"Too tired to party, eh?"

"Blaze, I'm going to try and give you your opening…" Kei dove on the MiG I was pursuing, and damned if he didn't pitch down. Trouble was, he pitched down so fast that I couldn't put my shot in.

"Shit!" I rolled onto my back and pulled up, squeezing the trigger at what I just KNEW to be the right point in my inside loop.

The missile roared off my rails and arrowed straight into the Fishbed, the detonation breaking the fighter's back. My mouth was fixed in a wolfish grin as I watched the wreckage come apart over my shoulder. "Splash one." We pulled into diamond formation.

"Damn, Kid, I gotta say. That was impressive. Alright, Thunderhead?"

"All bandits down. No threats on radar. Return to base." There was a pause. "Colonel Perraut won't be happy about this."

"Whatever. Everyone still with us? Wardog 4? You still following us? We're going to have to celebrate the fact that we all made it back alive. I'm going to let you keep your nickname. From now on, I'm gonna call you Kid, no matter what."

I nearly pulled the eject handle right then and there.


	6. Sunset

On The Job Training

* * *

An Ace Combat 5 story

* * *

A/N: To clear up the plausible misconception that Beowulf pointed out, I'm going to explain what Blaze meant when he talked about the 'two designs of MiGs'. He was referring to both the incident that was just about to boil over in front of him, as well as the 'Sand Island Incident' that he was in the control tower for, the one shown in the game's opening cutscene. There's a bit in that in which you can see the enemy fighters, and I'm pretty sure they were MiG-29 Fulcrums. If not, they were now. The composition of the flight that came against them in the previous chapter was just 4 MiG-21bis Fishbeds. Blaze is connecting the dots in his mind, even at that point in the war.

* * *

Whoever came up with the idea that the 108th Tactical tangled with a UFO above the Osean coast during Operation Lagoon is guilty of stupidity in the extreme. I can't even begin to fathom where they dredged up that ridiculous idea from. The closest thing that our world has ever seen to alien invasion is the planetfall of the Ulysses asteroid…or asteroids, thanks to the plan to blow that huge chunk of rock into an interstellar shotgun blast aimed at us…

Never mind that it did save the planet, someone should have used a higher yield nuke. Or, perhaps multiples. But that's past history. The flying objects which we officially 'did not shoot down' were identified…visually in fact. While we shot them down.

I can still remember the oh-so-slight bitterness that my first two combat kills did not count for anything. Chopper, though he wasn't lucky enough to get a kill in his first engagement, was somewhat pissed that officially, he was still a CV. Kei? Well, she was slightly annoyed by the fact that she had now proved herself in combat by taking down an enemy fighter, and was still getting precisely zero respect from the Captain. Add all this to some razzing by other persons on base that we had fired missiles at 'nothing', and the three of us that would fly past the next mission were in sort of bad moods.

Heck, even Genette, still steamed about the fact that he had lost his camera and video camera to the classified images they contained due to their presence on the flight that gutted Wardog, was included in our little knot of unhappiness. Only Bartlett and Pops were taking it all in stride. Pops because he really had nothing to be all that unhappy about, and Bartlett because he was just that kind of a man. Totally self-assured.

* * *

We all had our ways of coping. A beauty of a sunset found us all on the tarmac, near the hangar where Pops's transport plane rested, along with Bartlett's spare F-5E . I remember that Pops was tinkering with something to do with the mechanisms that folded the plane's wings. Genette and Bartlett were sitting and talking about the reprimand that the Captain had just gotten from Perrault, as well as what had REALLY happened in the air when we went after that SR-71. Chopper was playing catch with his dog Kirk, a friendly black lab. The Frisbee was about the closest thing in the air to a UFO that Wardog ever encountered.

Kei? Kei and I were sparring. Now, each member of the Osean Self-Defense Force, no matter what the branch, goes through a hand-to-hand combat curriculum. This meant that none of our fighting men and women would be helpless if left without weapons on the battlefield. We pilots took it seriously, because as any pilot who's ever had to ditch over a combat zone can tell you, your survival gear and weapons are definitely not certain to come with you, or land anywhere near you, assuming they get out of the plane. There's a lot of uncertainty when it comes to ejecting.

But even though Kei was trained in hand-to-hand combat, and was reasonably good at it too, she was having trouble. You see, back when I was still in college, thinking that I'd just be a civilian, I had been brought into the world of martial arts by my roommate during freshman year. My favorite was always taijiquan, and I had made, and still make it a point to keep current. I'm no grandmaster, true, but I can do some reasonably impressive stuff.

Military fighting systems are quite effective, but they have their flaws. The primary one is that they're strict playbooks, meant to be completely muscle-memory trained. If your opponent knows the system, they can control you quite effectively. The other, and this is more debatable, is that they are uncompromisingly 'hard', in martial arts parlance. A 'soft' stylist…such as a user of taijiquan, can use that to their advantage. I had both advantages.

Hence why Kei would throw a perfectly good sidekick…and go sprawling as I threw her. A punch invited joint locks, and maneuvers that put her at my mercy. Her attempt at the classic left-right was neutralized by a rising slap-block, followed by a palm-strike to rob the right of it's power, then a gentle tap with the heel of my hand under her chin to show that I could have sent her off her feet in that instance.

As we separated from our latest clash, breathing heavily, she put her hands on her knees, shook her head and laughed. "You know, you're as frustrating as the Captain."

I gave her a somewhat dirty look. "Thanks. I suppose I should aspire to that, though. Step 34b on the path to becoming a great fighter pilot…become insufferable."

That got a giggle out of her. "I don't know about that. You seem to be doing fine. It's just no matter how much I try, I can't seem to change the situation with either of you."

My eyebrow rose. "Excuse me?"

"Can't get him to respect me…can't land a, YAH!" She lunged and punched at me, an attack I redirected without taking advantage of the force to throw her or otherwise. I merely stepped behind her. "Well, land a single satisfactory attack on you."

I grinned. "Practice makes perfect." She turned to face me. "Do you really think I'm doing alright in the air?"

She started in with a chain of punches, each of which I dodged or blocked. "Come on, Blaze. You've been in live-fire air combat once, and you've already downed two planes. That's not luck."

"Edge…" I grabbed her wrist and pivoted outside, putting my free hand against her shoulder blade and hooking my foot in as a pivot point for my throw. "In case you didn't notice, one of those kills was the direct result of my squadmates' maneuvers." She went sprawling to the ground. "In fact, the second one nearly got me."

"Yeah, well, you're new at this, Jack. We all are. And that final kill was you. I don't think even the Captain could have made that missile shot."

I offered my hand to her. "Thanks." She clasped my hand, then I found myself being pulled down. "What the?"

"Ha! I got you!" she crowed.

"You're a treacherous little one, aren't you?" I asked in a mock offended tone from on the ground next to her. "I show a little chivalry and…boom."

"Well, of course!" She giggled again, a sound which would become very much lacking as the war went on. "I knew I'd have to be sneaky to win."

I propped myself up on my elbows. "Sun Tzu would be proud."

"Ah, a reader of the classics. I'm impressed. Military family?" She sat up.

I did likewise. "Nah. My parents are chefs. They own a restaurant in Oured. What about you?"

"My dad's an airline pilot. My mom died in the Erusian war."

I grimaced. "Sorry…so you were born on Usea?"

She nodded. "I'm from North Point. Dad used to fly for Istas Air. Mobius 1 saved him and his plane during the war, actually."

My eyebrow raised again. I knew the battle she was talking about. "Really now?"

Another nod. "He flies for Air Ixiom now. I just wanted to pay Osea back, though…"

I put a hand on her shoulder to stop her. "I get it."

She smiled. "What about you? Why'd you join up?"

I chuckled. "There's only so much you can do with a major in Osean these days, and I didn't feel like teaching. Getting your work published is pretty brutal. So…I guess I just figured, why not?" I am not immune to the irony of this. I gave up my original dream of writing fiction, and ended up with a life perfectly suited for this memoir you hold in your hands. The Fates can work in mysterious ways.

"You're kidding. You're a writer?" she looked at me funny. "You don't really look it…"

"Well, I was, anyway. Not a very successful one, but…" I looked away. My failure to make it as an author had always been somewhat of a sore spot for me.

Looking away turned out to be a very good decision. It gave me just enough visual warning to throw my arms up. You see, Alvin, in his love for comedy at the expense of his buddy, had decided to throw the Frisbee directly over my head. It got there, but only in the mouth of a jumping Kirk. A jumping Kirk which landed on me. "AH! Dammit, Chopper!"

Lick. "Woof woof!" Lick.

"Gah! Kiiirrrrk!"

It would be some of the last reprieve that we got for the next few days.


	7. Loss

On the Job Training

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An Ace Combat 5 story

---

This mission should have honestly just been a turkey shoot. In some ways, it was. But it wasn't a turkey shoot without losses. With the other 'non-existent' incident off the coast with the SR-71 and the Fishbeds, not to mention the Fulcrums that wiped out most of Wardog before that, our mission load had been changed. When I had made my first two kills, I had been carrying a pair of AIM-9M Sidewinder infrared-seeker missiles on my wingtip rails. That and roughly twelve seconds of 20mm cannon fire at a low cyclic rate on my two single-barrel nose guns…eight seconds at high rate…that made up my entire load of weapons. That figures to perhaps five kills in near-perfect conditions. Well…eight. That's both Osea and my record in simulated yet flying combat. But that was after the war. Back when I was at the top of my game. Needless to say, I wasn't there yet.

In any case, Colonel Perrault showed a rare moment of wisdom, likely motivated by Hamilton suggesting that it might be a good idea to arm our planes well, and let us mount double ejector racks on the underwing pylons, bringing our total missile load to six. He did not, however, authorize the use of ATM-9X missiles. The 9X was supposedly Osea's standard arm missile. Though originally an improvement over the 9M heat-seeker, somewhere in development it was fitted with an extraordinary lidar seeker head that could be used against both air and ground targets. Hence the AT, or 'all target' designation, rather than the AI, or 'air intercept' in front of the M for missile.

In truth, however, the OADF still had plenty of 9Ms hanging around, and Perrault was only too happy to get rid of them like this. It would cost us in my second combat mission.

The situation was fairly normal. It was a simple recon denial. A ship had penetrated our territorial waters and launched a flight of nine UAVs. Ground camera footage had told us that the model launched did not transmit its instruments' data back to the control station, only having a video feed so a pilot could fly it. Therefore, it was our job to shoot down the UAVs before they could be recovered by the ship that launched them. Simple enough, really.

Our restriction was the fact that we weren't allowed to fire on the intelligence trawler. That was the reason that we carried 9Ms, I'm convinced. He wasn't too keen on our track record for following orders to the letter, and decided that we wouldn't get anything suitable for attacking the ship outside of our internal guns. If that boat mounted any sort of weapon, it would leave us very vulnerable on our attack run.

Bartlett promptly ordered Pops to load his F-4G with four 9Ms, two AIM-120s, and a pair of AGM-88 HARMs, making sure our flight would have at least some strike capability against SAMs. I imagine that stuck in Perrault's craw a bit, but not enough to make a difference. When we ascended, the HARMs ascended with us.

---

The air was smooth as we proceeded at Angels 8, or 8,000 feet, towards the fleeing recon drones. Our airspeed hovered at about 520 mph, and the sky was fairly clear, with scattered high wispy clouds to the north.

"Alright, nuggets, this one's gonna be easy. Why don't you show me what you can do with your guns, huh? I'll just sit back and watch while you play with the toys."

I gritted my teeth. Play with the _toys_? We did have a mission to accomplish. No matter how much like target practice shooting down the drones would feel like, it was still our job to blow them out of the sky. "Roger, Captain," I responded with Chopper and Edge as we advanced our throttles to full power without burners, flying ahead of Bartlett's F-4. Oddly enough, I found myself in the lead position for the first time, Alvin and Kei hanging off my left and right wings, respectively.

My radio beeped for attention. "Hey, Blaze," came Chopper's voice. "Guess this is a good time for a contest of kill scores, huh?"

I smiled. Leave it to Alvin to find a bit of fun in boring and insulting orders. "You're on." I focused my eyes forward then, after checking the other two's positions. Three little dots were in the blue sky directly ahead of us. "Tally-ho! I have the first formation of UAVs on the nose. Waiting for orders to engage."

"This is SkyEye. Wardog is cleared to engage aerial targets only. Do not attack the ship."

"Blaze, engaging."

"Edge, engaging."

"Chopper, engaging."

I keyed my radio to talk to the other two. "Let's do this clean. I'll take the one in the middle, Edge, you take the one on the right, and Chopper, you clean up the one on the left."

"Sounds good," replied Chopper. "Nice of you to leave me something to toy with."

"Just get to it." I suited action to words, selecting my target, toggling over to GUNS, and placing my pipper on the now locked up target. I let the range drop a bit then…

NOW! I squeezed the trigger, then let up quickly, hoping not to expend too much ammo. It worked. My short burst was on target, and ripped the remote controlled craft apart. Edge's was a little longer, and a bit after mine, but the shot was still on-target. Her target fell from the sky as well.

Chopper, however…his shot wasn't so good. His gunfighting had been somewhat of a joke at the time of the loss of the majority of the squadron, and it hadn't gotten miraculously better after that one 'non-existent' mission. His shot wasn't too far off, and I think that a couple of bullets might have nicked his target, but it didn't go down.

"So, what do you guys think?" asked the captain. "Pretty easy, huh?"

"Yes sir," replied both I and Nagase.

"Good, good. Just don't get too cocky. These guys don't shoot back. You two go on ahead. Chopper, take another pass on your target."

"Dammit…yes sir." Chopper heeled over into a wide turn that also gave him some extra altitude, setting up for his next run as Edge and I flew towards the last two formations.

"Edge, go trail. I want to see if I can get more than one in this pass. Clean up what I don't get, alright?"

"Roger, Blaze. Dropping back to trail." Kei cut throttle some and eased into position on my five o'clock. There was still a good deal of range between my guns and the second group of drones before she matched airspeeds with my plane, holding position so that she would have ample chance to take the stragglers I might, and probably would leave still flying.

"Got him! I'm coming to join you guys!" Chopper's second pass was apparently successful. "Make sure to leave me some, Kid."

Him too? My teeth gritted yet again. This unwanted second callsign was bad for my enamel. Just for that, I wasn't leaving him any. There! I had extreme range on them. The gunsight pipper didn't show up, and wouldn't for a little while longer, but I knew that I was within range. Three trigger pulls and three small motions of my plane's nose sent the 20mm fire flaring at my targets.

Three UAVs fell from the sky as I streaked through the airspace they had occupied, heeling over into a barrel roll in exultation.

"No way…Blaze, you got them all!" came Nagase's awed voice over the radio. "And at extreme range!"

I gave a little smile behind my mask. "Heh…just lucky, I guess." Luck? Sure, there was more than a little of it there, but there was real skill behind those shots too. I hate to sound as if I'm bragging, a decidedly un-pilot-like trait, but the basic fact is that I am Osea's best fighter pilot. I don't know who is the best in the world, but I know that I'm up there somewhere. You have to be a hell of a natural pilot to wax even one target at extreme range like that. "Your turn, Edge."

We traded places, and altered course to intercept the final flight of three. On instinct I checked the tactical map. Chopper was still catching up to us, Bartlett was on my five o'clock high, and all that was showing up in terms of enemies was the final UAV flight and the intelligence trawler. It looked to me as if the final flight of UAVs would be descending to be picked up by the ship soon.

And then Kei was firing. To give you an idea of how good she is, she took two of the UAVs down on her pass. No, she's not me, but Kei Nagase is a superior combat pilot. "Missed one. Clean it up, would you, Blaze?"

"Come on, Edge…couldn't you two leave at least one for me?"

I pulled the trigger, letting another quick burst off to shred the last target. "Nope…afraid we can't, Chopper." I brought up the tactical map in my HMD again. New contacts, ten of them. "Holy…Captain, we've got bogeys incoming from 215, speed around, say, .6 Mach."

Bartlett gave an exasperated noise. "215? Same attack axis as before?"

Thunderhead's voice cut in. "Affirmative. It's the same vector as the last two times."

"Again? How many planes do they have lined up on the border? There's a grand total of four over here, what with the 596th off getting the combat planes. We'd better abort. Think you can stick to my tail, Kid?"

"Yes sir. No problem at all."

"Don't get too cocky, Kid. Confident is good, cocky isn't."

I gave a quiet sigh as we turned tail, as well as keeping an eye and ear out for lock-on warnings. I remembered the slaughter the SARH missiles had wreaked on the rest of Wardog during the first incident. If these guys had the same loadout…we could be in some real trouble.

Especially Chopper. "I can't make it! They're running me down!"

I'm still not sure why he didn't advance the throttle further than he did that day. I was flying the same model of plane as he, and had no trouble getting away. I never asked him, either. I can only suppose that he panicked. In any case…

"You're taking the trail position today, rock and roller? Hold on, we'll clear your tail. Wardog, weapons free to all aerial targets! Burner in and engage!"

I bared my teeth behind my mask, following Edge and Heartbreak 1 in an Immelman before lighting our afterburners. Raw fuel sprayed into our exhaust, forming large cones of flame behind us that boosted our speed greatly, along with draining our fuel at a prodigious rate. Speed was, after all, of the essence. But it also meant that we had much less time to dogfight. A second wave of enemy fighters would be…troublesome. Not that we didn't have plenty of trouble on our hands here. An element of three trying to save a single plane from ten was in pretty bad shape. About the only blessing was the fact that the enemy fighters were working in elements of five. When it comes to dogfighting, even-numbered elements are better than odd-numbered elements. They are quite a bit easier to coordinate, and offer the Thatch Weave as an effective tactic.

That didn't mean this wasn't a BAD idea. We were flying in an odd-numbered element too. My mind ran through tactics as the range dropped. What would Bartlett order? As it turned out, I guessed correctly. "Edge, Kid, you two support each other. I'm going to save Motormouth. Kid, you have the lead."

I blinked. Well, that was some sort of a vote of confidence. And it certainly made sense keeping the light fighters together, exploiting their abilities in the tight turns while Bartlett exercised his Phantom's brute thrust for the engage-disengage fight that it was suited for.

Then it was time. It almost felt as if I had melded with the plane, just like that first training flight with Bartlett. We were one. My targeting systems reached out, painting my first target. "Blaze, engaging!" The green diamond of lock slid over the green box of the target and the beeping changed to a solid, comforting tone. "Good tone…Fox 2!" I squeezed the trigger and the Sidewinder shot off the most inboard right wing rail.

I can only imagine that the pilot of the Fulcrum in front of me was surprised to have an IR missile fly right into his port engine and detonate. "Splash one," I called even as I retargeted, moving to the next one to the now dead leader's right. The pipper came up and my thumb pressed the top button on the stick, the quick-fire button for the guns.

Two seconds of 20mm fire raked the second Fulcrum before Edge and I flashed past the element, my two kills falling from the sky. The five were now three, and going for altitude as they turned back towards us. That was disappointing. I had hoped against hope that they wouldn't use their superior thrust generation to gain the altitude advantage, but I knew it was likely to happen. What was going to come next would be nasty.

I wasn't the only one on the killboard. Bartlett had made good use of his two AIM-120s, scoring a pair of BVR kills in the element that was working Chopper over. Even better, the break in the pattern had allowed Chopper the chance to disengage, along with a beauty of a gun snap shot that had a Fulcrum trailing smoke and fuel. As Chopper joined up with Bartlett, the pilot of the damaged MiG ejected, leaving that fight two on two and giving Alvin his first combat kill.

That wasn't really my concern, though. I was aware of it, but my focus was much more on the three planes that were working to blow Kei and myself from the sky. They had gained altitude and spread out so that each of them covered a way we could go if we reversed back into them, all except down. And down was a bad idea. Over the ocean, there's no ground clutter to lose your pursuers in. Granted this does eliminate the 'running into a hill you didn't expect' threat, but I think that Wardog's credentials at low altitude flight are pretty damn good.

We were, sad to say, boxed in. Continuing straight was a losing proposition, and reversing into them was hardly tempting. Interestingly, they didn't seem keen to lock us up with missiles, instead closing to guns range and pulsing out bursts of fire at us. Arrogance, I suppose, and the wish to score a couple of easy guns kills. I've already said that ego's a bitch. Well, arrogance is her sister, and they're twins.

"Edge, Thatch weave!" It was an old tactic, dating back to the days when propeller planes were at their zenith and aircraft carriers were decked with wood. Back in those day, guns were the only weapon for dogfighting, so everything occurred in visual range. Though of more limited application, the tactic still had its uses.

Kei and I threw our planes into opposite banks, opening the distance between us and splitting the enemy element. One stayed on me, while the other two followed her. Our next move was to reverse our turns, cutting back on a course that would have us crossing. The pilot on my tail saw what was coming and disengaged, leaving me free to drop my speed and cruise in on the two on Kei's. A quick missile shot took the trailing Fulcrum, and got the lead to break off. "Splash three!"

Edge then reversed her turn and got a lock on the one that had been on my tail. A long-range missile shot actually paid off, and gave Edge her second combat kill. "Bandit down! Hey, Blaze, you just made ace!"

I gritted my teeth as I tracked the final Fulcrum from our opposing element through a steep arc, gradually pulling my nose ahead of his plane. Lead pursuit…and…angle for guns! I flipped my weapons over to guns and squeezed the trigger, sending 20 mm slugs flaring out at the MiG.

The MiG driver might have been arrogant, but he was also good. He had enough presence of mind to start jinking about, making my gun shot a pain. Unfortunately for him, I was outside minimum missile range. I relished the idea of shooting him down with guns, in an ironic reversal, but I was going to be practical about these things. Box and diamond met in red doom, and another missile sailed off my rails to bring my 'official total' to four. "Not yet, Edge. I've still got one more kill to make before it's my turn to buy the drinks."

"You know exactly what I mean, Blaze," she grumbled as she formed up on my wing. "Are we going to go help the Captain and Chopper?"

"Of course," I replied, banking in tandem to head us towards the fight. "And I know what you mean." I brought up the tactical map on my HMD as I scanned the sky Chopper and the Captain were fighting in. "I doubt Heartbreak 1 really is going to need our help…oh Fates…dammit all. Captain, we have another flight of six bogeys incoming from 215, airspeed Mach 2.0. IFF squawk is negative. Looks like they've really got it in for us. Please advise."

"Damn…and we'd just finished up our share here."

"I got two now, man!"

"Shut up, Chopper. Alright, we don't have much chance. We don't have the fuel or the thrust to run from these guys. We're going to have to engage. How are you guys for loadout?"

"Down to a third of my gun and three Sidewinders."

"Winchester on gun, five missiles."

"Two missiles, half the gun."

"And I've still got three missiles and plenty of 20mm," finished Bartlett. "Let's take them down fast. We really are cutting it close. Form up on me."

We followed orders and came about in a turn towards what we would see were MiG-29s as well. I gave a nervous flick of the eyes to my fuel gauge. Bartlett was not kidding when he said we were cutting it close. We'd be lucky to get seven minutes of dogfighting time before we went bingo fuel.

The head to head went well for us. Kei, Bartlett, Chopper, and I all made a missile shot. Suddenly, we had double the enemy's numbers. Aside from a somewhat scary moment when one got onto the Captain's tail, they were easy meat, the one that got onto the Captain's tail falling to a missile shoved up its right tailpipe courtesy of Edge, and the other falling from the sky, riddled with the last of my 20mm fire.

And then…we lost him. It was such a quick series of events. We were getting ready to exit the area, as we were so obviously low on fuel, heads on a swivel, as ordered. Suddenly, there was a puff of white smoke from behind us, low down on the water, and a SAM was racing up towards Kei's Tiger II. She shoved the throttle forward and tried to evade, but in her panic, wasn't choosing the right tactics. She didn't even pop chaff and flares. But there was Bartlett, providing a much brighter target by sliding in between her and the missile before drawing it off…but too late to evade. Shrapnel ripped into his wing, and there was suddenly no way that he was making it back to Sand Island. Leaking hydraulic fluid and fuel, he gave us a morale-boosting bit of wisdom before punching out.

We all wanted to stay and cover him, but we were bingo fuel, and 3rd Fleet needed fighter cover. The war had started, and Captain Jack Bartlett was the first on the MIA list.

---

A/N: Well, that's that. Another chapter bites the dust. Hopefully a pretty good one, no? Anyway, I've decided to add a translation section for all the pilot slang and acronyms that crop up in this story. I realize that some of them are common knowledge for Ace Combat players, but just in case.

---

OADF: Osean Air Defense Force

Angels: Altitude of friendly aircraft in thousands of feet.

UAV: Unmanned Aerial Vehicle

Tally-ho: "I have visual contact"

HMD: Helmet Mounted Display

Bogey: Unidentified aircraft

SARH: Semi-Active Radar Homing

Engage: Commence BFM

BFM: Basic Fighter Maneuvers

Immelman turn: Inside half-loop followed by a 180-degree roll.

Fox 2: IR missile launch (also lidar missile launch for the fic's purposes)

IR: InfraRed

Lidar: laser radar

BVR: Beyond Visual Range

IFF: Identify Friend or Foe

Winchester: Out of ammo

SAM: Surface to Air Missile

MIA: Missing In Action


	8. Support

On the Job Training

* * *

An Ace Combat 5 story

* * *

Author's note: First of all, I'd like to thank all my readers and especially reviewers. I know that the Ace Combat section is a fairly barren section, and to get so many reviews and views is a real treat for me as a writer.

But on to the point that I feel I should warn you about. Simply put, I've tried to make my dogfights realistic, and I intend to keep on doing the same. But to make the missions flown in the story match up with the game simply isn't possible. A fighter aircraft just can't carry so many weapons. So I'm afraid you're going to have to suspend you disbelief some when I introduce the reason missile loads are so high in the world of Ace Combat. I know that the tech levels are inconsistent.

* * *

It had begun now. With the declaration of war by Yuktobania, our aerial skirmishes were suddenly real again, admitted to by the brass. My kills were tallied at eight, not zero. Kei had four, and Alvin had two. Our metaphorical blades were blooded, and we had lived past the statistical pitfall for nuggets, that five to ten minutes of combat that so few were good enough to get through.

Yes, we were proven fighter pilots…I was even an ace by that point, and Kei wasn't far behind. But we had lost our flight lead, and we soon found that things were changing…fast.

Firstly, when we landed, we saw four basic gray F-16C Fighting Falcons sitting empty on the tarmac, ground crews bustling about them under Pop's expert direction, working frantically to make sure they were totally ready for this mission.

As we taxied into our spots on the apron, ground crew members were already sprinting towards us, intent on switching us over to the Falcons as fast as they could. I nearly questioned the wisdom of putting us in new and unfamiliar planes right before combat, no matter if they were more maneuverable.

That was when I saw the cylinders on the wingtip rails. It wasn't nearly so big of a mystery after that. You see, there's a major flaw with fighter aircraft. Specifically, they can't carry enough ordnance to play a major tactical role on the battlefield. They can dogfight for a limited time, and perhaps make two tactical ground strikes, but that's it. There just isn't enough space on the wings, or enough power in the engines to let them carry so much and still be effective.

That's where the cylinders come in. In all honesty, they should be flat-out impossible. Absolutely, totally impossible. Though no larger than a missile, they function as a gateway to a very, very small 'pocket dimension'…one large enough to store say…thirty-four missiles in, for the ones that were loaded on the Falcons. Two of them gave a pilot a grand total of _68_ ATM-9X active lidar-guided missiles to work with, along with four Mk 82 Slick 500lbs bombs under the wings and a belly tank of extra fuel.

No one is quite sure how those cylinders work, but there isn't a major power that doesn't know how to make them, and doesn't grasp exactly what they mean. Suddenly, a fighter aircraft can be loaded with an unholy amount of firepower, while keeping its maneuverability and speed. A light plane is turned from a highly effective delivery system and destroyer of same into a veritable angel of death.

The trade-off is…well, they're expensive in the way that space travel is expensive. The price for even one is exorbitant. And the huge load of missiles does nothing to offset a fighter plane's innate fragility. So, each one is a gamble. Can the pilot keep himself alive while effectively spending the huge budget he's just been given, or is he a waste of a plane and two of those oh-so-expensive weapons?

So, hand planes armed with these to Wardog, and you're making each worth a squadron or more. Hand one to a lawn dart in waiting and you've just spent a lot of money on a plane, the cylinders, and 68 fairly expensive missiles as well.

There's a reason peace is much cheaper. Really good pilots are RARE. The cylinders were a kick in the nuts. This wasn't a border skirmish anymore. It was now war, with all the connotations that carried. As I slid into that small cockpit with the reclined seat, offset stick, and bubble canopy, I closed my eyes and let out a sigh. This wasn't what I wanted. Yes, I loved air combat. I loved combat in general, that sublime flow of attack and defense, position and energy. But I hated fighting. I hated the thought that I had killed men, sent them to their deaths. I was a warrior. I hungered for combat, but prayed to never taste it.

But the feast was here, set in front of me. Knife and fork were in my hands, and should I not partake, who knows how many more would die.

Someone once said "War is about doing things that you don't like to people you like even less." I agree. I didn't like what I was about to do one bit. But I certainly didn't like the idea of those things being done to my comrades and those we have sworn to protect.

So when my eyes opened, my face was hard and in my eyes danced the fire that had given me my callsign. It was time. On tails of flame, three gray-feathered Falcons rose to the azure sky.

* * *

The port of St. Hewlett was a relatively new development. Where St. Hewlett is now used to be somewhat inland, with a hilly coast. But during the Ulysses 1994 XF04 asteroid planetfall in 1999, one of the rocks that speared through the atmosphere and made it to the ground impacted on the coast. The resulting explosion carved what would be a bowl-shaped bay into the coast. It wasn't long before the military decided that they had just been given a fine natural harbor, and built a naval station there. A civilian city grew up around it, and a gigantic bridge spans the bay as of now. 10 years, and already an integral trade and military point.

10 years, and already receiving its first aerial attack, its second war.

We flew in our three-plane formation, feeling paltry when compared to the 596th, who had already flown ahead in fully-loaded F-14D Super Tomcats, their trade up from F-4E Phantom IIs. But the faint radio chatter from up ahead still held a frantic undertone, growing stronger as the signal did.

Then the double beep of an incoming message caught our attention. "Wardog Squadron, this is Thunderhead. Due to the circumstances, we will be issuing an emergency in-flight briefing."

It wasn't anything that was particularly surprising. As was obvious, the port was under attack, and the ships of the 3rd Osean Naval Defense Force Fleet were doing there best to escape…including the flagship, the aircraft carrier Kestrel, lead ship of the Kestrel class. We were supposed to make sure that the fleet was still combat-capable by nightfall, and to keep the Kestrel afloat at all costs.

Definitely an easier said than done thing, though. With four 500lbs Mk82s hanging off the wings, providing weight and drag, even such a supremely maneuverable fighter as the F-16 becomes a bit sluggish. Thankfully, our inbound course took us over the small Yuktobanian flotilla that had been detailed to mop up the remains of 3rd Fleet. So our first order of business was to bomb the key ships in the task force. I started to reach for the radio controls when Thunderhead's voice cut in again.

"Wardog Squadron, you are approaching the combat zone. Prepare to engage. Edge, you are to take the lead."

Okay then…considering how things had gone in the air before, I had kind of expected to be the one in command. Mentally, I started to rephrase what were going to be orders into a suggestion for Kei. But she beat me to saying something…and forced me to change the phrasing back to the original.

"Negative. Blaze will lead. I'll stay back and cover his six."

"Follow your orders, Second Lieutenant Nagase!"

"He's certainly qualified," she objected mulishly as I increased my throttle a bit and slid into the number one position.

Just then, a friendly F-14A shot right over our formation, piloted by one Captain Marcus Snow. He certainly wasn't happy with us, arguing command chain while his carrier was under attack. "Shut up! This is war! Stop playing around, or you'll die!"

"Yeah…I'll just stick with the trail position, thanks." Okay…Chopper's comment was somewhat amusing.

As Snow engaged Thunderhead's attention and more radio chatter from the battle filtered its way to us, I started highlighting targets on the tac map. We would do this right.

"Blaze…you'll take the lead right? Please let me cover your tail."

"Don't worry. I'm fine with it, Edge. I'm shooting you guys our targets." I had chosen the cruiser and three missile destroyers that seemed to form the core of the task force. The cruiser I designated one, the destroyers two, three, and four. "I'll take target one with three bombs. Edge, three bombs on target two. Chopper…"

"Three bombs on target three, right?"

"Yeah. Then we execute a combined attack on target four with the last of the bombs. From there we can burner in and cover Third Fleet. I don't want to be dogfighting with bombs on my wings. Okay. Jettison the drop tanks and start your bombing runs."

Toggling my weapon systems over to bombs, I suited action to words, jettisoning my belly tank as I pushed the stick forward, stooping in on my target. Dive bombing wasn't necessary in this day and age, what with the abundance of guided air to ground weapons, but every once in a while it just works. Besides, no one expects it, and it makes it a lot easier to aim 'dumb' bombs.

Hitting what I thought was a good altitude, I pulled the trigger three times, calling out my drops with the word 'pickle' as I pulled up and added throttle to get me out of the zone. My mouth formed into my trademark wolfish grin as three fireballs erupted behind me, then three more to my four o'clock and yet another three on my eight.

The final destroyer got a much more conventional drop, if a low-altitude one. We flew in trail, each dropping our last 500lbs bomb before engaging our afterburners. Wardog had just finished its first ground attack mission, and the heart of an enemy task force blazed behind us. But we had work to do in the skies.

* * *

It was a bad sight that greeted our eyes when we made it to St. Hewlett. Ships were blazing and our fighters weren't in the best condition. Perhaps seven friendly Tomcats quartered the sky, doing their best to keep the waves of A-6E Intruders from making it through to attack our ships. Unfortunately, they were by and large tied up with the F-20s and F-5Es that the enemy so thoughtfully provided.

It was a mismatch. Tomcats are extremely good interceptors, and they can dogfight, but in close, an F-20 can turn and burn with an early-model F-16. And these F-14s had already been engaged in what amounted to knife fights in telephone booths. Not good at all. My teeth gritted as I watched one of the Tomcats take down a pair of Intruders before an AIM-7 shot sent the big plane spiraling towards a watery grave.

"Wardog, split and engage! Take the heat off of the 596th and carrier jets long enough for them to disengage and regroup!" I ordered, already scanning the sky for the first enemy fighter pair to bounce.

"Blaze…wouldn't it be better if I continued flying support…"

"No…not now." I had already found my targets, and was maneuvering towards them. Chopper had let himself drift out of formation some, but was still staying close. Edge was still on my wing.

"Kid…we're still rookies. Single-ship fighting is dangerous for us, especially against these odds."

"Please Blaze…I don't want to lose another flight lead."

"Split and engage," I repeated. "It might be dangerous, but right now, those Tomcats need our help. As soon as we've saved them, we go back to supporting each other, but not now. Split and engage, Wardog."

They followed my orders. Reluctantly, but they did. Each of us took a sector of sky and cut a swath through it, surprised Tigersharks falling from the air in front of us. Four fell to my missiles and guns as I shot my way through the densest concentration of enemy fighters. Edge took one with a missile shot, then waxed his wingmate with a gun burst before banking in to loose yet another missile that forced another Yuke to disengage, missing a good chunk of wing. Chopper got two with missiles, but missed with his guns.

And then we were through and banking back around for another pass. But this time, this time the Yuke pilots were aware of us. They knew the main threat wasn't the Tomcats. The F-14s were easy meat in the battle we were engaged in. Only our three Falcons had the close-in maneuvering ability to really pose a threat. But we didn't have the numbers. The OADF and ONDF had exactly nine fighters in the air over St Hewlett. Three of them were well-suited for the furball. The Yukes had twenty-four fighters in the air, along with fourteen A-6E Intruders. And that was after our runs.

However, our head-on attacks did give us some payoff. The breaks in the patterns they were flying to box in the Tomcats let four of them disengage and fire on the Intruders. Six of the attack planes fell from the skies, flares of rockets carrying their pilots and B/Ns free on columns of flame. Well, in some cases. It's a recurring theme in this narrative, but war's a dirty business, even up among the clouds. There were deaths.

Another F-14, piloted by Swordsman as a matter of fact, didn't take the opportunity to go after the Intruders. Instead he used the breaks in the pattern to get into an advantageous position and smoked a trio of Tiger IIs with a pair of ATMs and an AIM-7.

That was about when things got crazy again.


	9. Testing

On the Job Training

* * *

An Ace Combat 5 story

* * *

Kei tells me that as soon as I saw the majority of the Yuktobanian fighters beginning to maneuver towards us I ordered her and Chopper to form up on me and fly support. I can believe this, as the three of us were flying mutual support by the time that I can recall the battle clearly. I do not remember anything but a blur of control inputs, missile and gun shots, and the acquiring of new targets. Kei called it 'the most amazing series of combat maneuvers' that she had ever seen up until then. According to her, each and every move seemed calculated to control the enemy, letting us spend as little time as possible on each of them.

My comprehensive memories return as an element of three planes engaged us in a head-to-head joust, two of them receiving missiles to their noses for their troubles. Chopper's was quick enough and lucky enough to just barely get out of the ATM that he loosed. But then we were arcing up and over to drop in on his tail, still within gun range as he broke exactly the wrong way. Three short spurts of cannon fire converged on his tail and we broke away from him, hunting for our next targets.

Flicking a glance over my shoulder, I saw an explosion where the cannon shells had landed, then the welcome sight of our target ejecting from his wrecked plane. But my attention was more focused on the tactical map that my HMD projected in the lower left of my field of view. "Chopper, take Bandit 12. Edge, Bandit 3 is working his way into advantage on you. Continue right. I've got your tail covered."

"Got it, Kid. He's all mine!"

"Confirmed, Blaze. Continuing right." Edge's voice was surprisingly level, all things considered, but there was some unease leaking through. "Blaze, an enemy element is targeting you…"

"I know. I've got enough time." As I said that, my EW board lit up and the cue of an enemy searching for a lock sounded in my earphones, along with the red 'WARNING' box in my HMD. "Tighten your turn, but prepare to reverse left on my mark."

"Roger…"

I cruised right in on the Tigershark's tail that had picked Kei for its target. He had left his SA back at home, that pilot, just doing his best to lock up Edge, so much so that he didn't even notice my ATMs sniffing at his tail. "Break now! Blaze, Fox 2, Fox 2!" I squeezed the side stick's trigger twice, releasing my weapons to blow the F-20 clear out of the sky.

Then "Bitchin' Betty" was screaming enemy missile lock in my ears, followed shortly by the missile warning. An eyeflick down and to the left confirmed the situation on the tactical map. Four missiles were streaking towards my tail, courtesy of a pair of Yuke fighters that were at a lower altitude than me. It was just like I had predicted. "Edge, take the fighters on my tail…Bandit 7 and 8. I'll cover you from Bandit 11."

"Got it, Blaze! I promise I'll get them." She rolled over into a Split-S and dove at the two Tigers that had launched on me.

I wanted to reply that I knew she would, but the only thing I was saying was "hook", forced out through gritted teeth as I pulled into a 9-G downward turn that the missiles couldn't follow at that close of range. I didn't bother to pop any countermeasures without a radar lock warning. Yuktobanian standard missiles used a lidar seeker much like our ATMs, and neither chaff nor flares do anything really useful against them. You have to simply force more Gs onto the missile's tiny wings than they can handle.

I continued the bank just long enough, then spiraled up into a zoom-climb which ended with me in an intentional hammerhead stall, ruddering over to stoop on Bandit 11, who was turning into Edge's arc, just as she ripped Bandit 8's wing off with cannon fire as the Yuke pilot tried to keep up with his more skilled pair leader, who was jinking well.

Shoving my throttle far forward, I ignited my afterburner, picking up speed quickly, and reaching Bandit 11 as he realized that I was screaming down upon him. I could see his helmeted and masked face staring up at me as he started to frantically evade. My mind placed his frightened eyes in place of his sun visor even as I opened up with my guns. It wasn't pleasant, especially as my first few shells impacted on the nose of his fighter, after which the rest marched down the plane's centerline, including the cockpit.

Needless to say, he didn't eject. Neither did Bandit 7, buying a missile from Edge and exploding in a massive fireball. As Bandit 7 went, I rolled and pushed forward on the stick to avoid the debris of Bandit 11.

* * *

I haven't mentioned it yet, but the killing was made worse by the fact that Osean policy, and indeed the policy of most militaries is to have a 'secondary channel' that is overrode by your primary channel but puts through enemy chatter during the dead space in your radio chatter. They teach you other languages so that you can glean tactical information from it. Now, I'm a horrible linguist, and I do mean horrible, so I only know a little Yuktobanian, but I don't need to know any to know what a death scream sounds like, and the subtext of a man pleading for his life as he spirals towards the ground in a ruined fighter with an equally ruined ejection seat and major wounds is not something found in grammar and vocabulary. Emotion sounds the same the world over.

Mercifully, Chopper's radio call overrode the screams of Bandits 7 and 11. "I got Bandit 12…and 10. Anything else you want me to do, Kid?"

Fates, I hated that nickname. "Just form up on me, Chopper. It looks like the Yukes are bugging out." Indeed, the remaining members of the strike force seemed to be heading back the way they had come. "We'll flow to low-altitude cover of the Kestrel, racetrack pattern."

"Roger."

"Acknowledged, Blaze."

I pushed forward on the stick, sending my Falcon into a gentle dive that Kei and Alvin followed, pulling out at about Angels 3. That was about when the Yuke A-6E that somehow had gotten cut off from the raggedy formation that was heading out to whatever carrier or airbase had launched this attack took a final ATM from Marcus's rails. Flames engulfed its tail as it spiraled down, crashing in between the Kestrel and the nearby Aegis-class cruiser. The fireball it became touched off an oil slick from a foundering destroyer that had made it out of the port earlier, only to start sinking near the bridge after taking a number of bombs as it exited the port.

* * *

It's amazing what the mind can perceive…amazing and terrible. I say this because I, and the rest of Wardog saw bodies in that flaming water…the lucky ones dead, the unfortunate burning alive, skin melting…I cannot write anymore about this. Some memories are best left alone.

A tense silence followed the horrible sight, broken only by our shuddery breaths into our masks as we orbited the carrier. It was a good fifteen minutes before Chopper broke the silence. "Kid…did you see that?"

I cut him off with perhaps the curtest "Yes" I had ever delivered in my life. I really didn't want to think about it.

"So you saw it too…that sea…"

I was almost glad to see the wingpair of Mirage 2000s come to try and divert the fleet's fighter cover from the three ASM carrying BAE Nimrods behind them. It gave us something to focus on. I don't believe those pilots really knew what hit them, as we turned in behind them and ripped their planes to shreds with cannon fire. Snow led the remaining F-14s in a sortie against the Nimrods, a sortie that quartet of F-4s tried to break up.

We arrowed up in a hard climb and punched through their formation, firing just enough rounds from our cannons to make the Phantom drivers think that it would be a very good idea to scatter their formation as a triad of gray-painted Falcons punched right through the middle of it.

Too predictable, they played right into my hands, as I ordered a formation break that dropped us each in on one of the larger planes' tails. Three missile shots later, we each had an extra kill.

That was when my threat warning alarms started going off. The last Phantom pilot had been better than I thought. He figured out my plan, and took advantage of the fact that by its very nature, my plan left him uncovered.

I grimaced as my HMD went red. He had fired a missile at my tail, and at a lot closer range than I liked.

Honestly, I expected to be hit. My first time out from under Bartlett's wing, a chance to gain some real respect from him…and I was about to get shot down by someone flying a almost-obsolete fighter. I knew that, even as the thoughts flashed through my head, that it was too late to evade. I was going to be one of those horrible screams over the radio, or if I was lucky…I'd have a long ride on the silk elevator to the waves below, where the pissed-off Yuktobanian sailors might just pick me up.

But I was already evading. When I realized the G-forces were shoving the blood in my body towards my feet, even as my hands and feet moved through the most fluid flying I had ever seen out of myself, I was amazed to find myself coming about in a reversal, even as Kei's horrified gasp turned into one of amazement. The Phantom's missile flashed past me…and my finger tightened on the trigger, sending the last of my gun's ammo into the F-4's wing. He didn't fall from the sky, but he did disengage.

"Blaze…"

"You haven't lost you lead plane yet, Edge."

"Hey, Kid…you want me to finish off the guy you winged? I've got a solid tone."

I unclipped my mask. "Negative. We've had enough death today. They're no threat, so just leave them." I felt myself almost pull away from the fighter, like we had become two separate entities again.

"…my thanks to our brave warriors of the sea…and in the air." The admiral's voice. I glanced at my tac map. The Kestrel had made it.

"So…did you like being squadron leader, Jack?"

I had to really consider that question. This leadership crap, it had been remarked, was an excellent way to get killed. Still… "I guess so."

"That's good to hear."

Kei was about to say something, but the radio was beeping for attention. Thunderhead calling to give us our vector to the refueling craft, and then to Sand Island. I let my body automatically punch in the necessary waypoints and sent them over to Kei and Alvin through the squadron computer net, an Osean add-on to each of our planes that I heartily agree with.

"One, two, three. One, two, three planes. Count em all up man, we're all back safe." I smiled. Alvin was right. The mission was a success, and we had taken no casualties. That was what was important. "The Captain's going to freak when we get back to Sand Island."

That got me thinking. What would that insufferable old…highly skilled…bastard think about how things had went? Would he be mad that I had taken squadron command against orders? Was my performance good enough?

A moot point, as we would find out later.

* * *

AN: Hello all you wonderful readers...those who haven't gotten fed up with how long this chapter took to get out. And to any new readers, hello as well. I am sorry with how long this one took to come out. Personal troubles is all I'm willing to say. Nothing serious, but bear with me, please. I love writing far too much to stop, and this story is one that I do enjoy quite a bit.


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